Home Sweet Hell
by Yeoman1000
Summary: Post Season 1 - "Transgenic Scum! You think those geeks with their chemistry sets and their gene banks had their dirty little paws on the future?" Probably very AU. Sylar is taken captive by The Company, or is he? Rated T for swearing.


**This is my first fic in a very long time. **

**This is a cross-over between Heroes and another TV-show, but I won't say which, maybe someone will be able to guess it. I hope you'll like this, its approximately 1900 words, and about 3 hours work (including re-reading, editing and distractions). **

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The room was pitch black, and the darkness was like an overwhelming ally in a sea of nothing. Sylar's arms and legs were strapped down onto some kind of operating table; his physical strength had betrayed him, and his mental strength had all but abandoned him. 

Only his advanced-hearing remained, it came and went like a florescent light unsure as to whether it was working or not. Unfamiliar sounds greeted his ears; the stamping of feet, fighting, doors being slammed and people being yelled at. Where was he? Surely not Primatech paper, this place seemed different somehow. The sounds didn't match with those compared to his most recent stay at The Company.

His link with the outside was once again severed; the peculiar sounds swiftly becoming a memory. Sylar cursed himself mentally for not having picked up something useful, like night vision or something akin to that. He tried to telekinetically break his bonds, but nothing happened. He tried to supercool or superheat the straps that held him firmly in place, but again his powers shunned him.

He clenched his fists and willed them to glow, to become his guiding light and let him burn the forsaken place to the ground! Nothing. A hiss escaped his lips and he tugged and kicked at the straps with everything he had, they didn't budge. All he succeeded in doing was worrying his chest wound, causing a pain to swim through him as quick and sharp as a swordfish's charge. Blood slowly oozed out from his mouth, wondered down his chin and slid down his throat; it was all he could do not to cry out in pain.

"Careful, you'll pull a stitch." A sharp voice said, emerging out of nowhere. Sylar yanked his head in the direction of the voice, but he could hear no breathing, no matter how shallow. The voice he'd heard had sounded distorted in someway; he concluded that there was no one in the room, and that he was being watched by a camera and spoken to via a microphone. How typical, they were far too scared to face him directly, how tedious.

He realised his hearing was returning again, and he focused in on it to hasten its return. It was like having a searchlight to search the nighttime vista. Running his searchlight along the corridor outside his current lodgings, he captured a new sound; high heeled shoes heading in his direction. They sounded very loud, painfully so, and Sylar hastily reduced his sensitivity.

Whoever it was already had Sylar's complete undivided contempt; they clearly liked to be heard, for everyone to know they were nearby. If the amount of noise someone made were an indicator of importance, therefore only the boss would exude such pomposity and confidence.

He could hear her heart as well now, and it was as calm as a sunbathing butterfly on an enchanting summer's day. He'd set that right…someday.

The tinkle of buttons being pressed greeted his ears, followed quickly by the huffing and puffing of hydraulics. The door grunted as it popped open, spears of bright light flooded the room, and black patches obscured Sylar's view. A flick was switched and more light filled the room, annihilating any shadows which dared to linger. The door was closed and reversed its shunting of levers and hissing as it locked itself tightly.

The room it seemed was built entirely of breezeblocks painted a clinical white; however the walls were dirty and mouldy, there was a metal shelving unit sat to one side of the room. Sylar found he was in fact strapped to an operating table, which was lower were his feet were and left him halfway between lying down and standing, which was disconcerting to say the least.

After a brief glance around his disgusting cell, he put his energies to a more productive use; giving his guest a fearsome stare. He placed considerable effort into his glare: his discomfort, disgust at his current surroundings, the shooting pain in his chest and his general dislike of the women before him, who it seemed was unconcerned by the daggers being shot her way.

Sylar rationed that this was because it was incredibly hard to look menacing in such a well-lit room, and probably because such a pretentious women was more than accustomed to being loathed.

She held a manila folder in her left hand, and was dressed completely in black. Her skirt was black, pleated and ended just above the knee; her suit-jacket hung low and was lined with subtle stripes.

Sylar was satisfied as she broke his gaze, but it seemed that it was only because the documents her folder contained were far more interesting; therefore there was no sped up heartbeat, and no panicky breaths either. Upon noticing that her eyes were darkened with mascara, and that her short, peroxide blonde hair was neatly styled, he decided that she could've looked worse for a forty-five to fifty year old.

"You make for interesting bedtime reading Mr Gray," Their eyes locked and she offered her own hawk gaze. She advanced forward, slowly; she had all the time in the world, stopping only when she was arms-length away from where unpredictable murderer was bound.

Her blatant arrogance and disregard for such greatness was infuriating, Sylar's arm tensed at the notion of separating her larynx from her oesophagus. He smirked at the idea of taking a peek inside her pretty little head and seeing what skeletons lurked within, of which there were bound to be many. The thought that this woman read up on serial killers before going to sleep was ludicrous. Sylar allowed a bitter chuckle to escape his lips, then quickly reverted back to his usual, uninviting demeanour.

The queen bee cocked her head at this, but said nothing. She went back to searching through her folder, and drew something out, a picture of some sort. It turned out to be a picture of one of Sylar's victims; a nice close up of half a head. She let the printout drop from her hand, where it landed precariously on Sylar's legs. Another photo emerged, and that to fell to join the other.

"One…Two…Three…Four…Five," she began counting with the first picture, slowly, everything was precisely timed; each word eloquently released as the corresponding printout escaped from her grasp. "…Six…Seven…Eight…Nine…Ten," She glanced down at the photo's, some of which had toppled onto the floor. "I think number nine is my favourite. What's your preference?"

Sylar added a little to his menacing smirk, making it as unsettling as he could muster. "I could think of a perfect candidate for a number eleven," he said, letting the venom flow free. The woman only smirked back: completely indifferent to the killer's knee-rattling glares or the heart-throbbing threats.

"How are you feeling?" Her considerate question was hailed with silence. "It was touch and go for a while, you almost didn't make it, but my people came through. You look awfully pale though, are you sure you're not ill?" She sauntered over to a shelf by the wall, whilst his eyes stayed glued to her, like a cat intent on a mouse. As she returned she leant over him, and placed the back of her hand against his forehead, a mother inspecting her child for illness, for weakness. Sylar jerked in his restraints as forcefully and suddenly as he could, the woman returned to her full height and stared at him quizzically. But he had heard it! A little quiver in her carefully controlled heartbeat, her perimeter defences had been thrown out of sync, and soon the rest would come crashing down around her ears.

There was something shiny and metallic in her hand, she reached toward his throat and pulled on the lace of his gown, She placed the cold mental object under the fabric, and the rapids of his heart were projected into the room for all to hear.

Sylar thought this all very ironic, since if he were so inclined, he could have listened into his own heartbeat, but what was more important to him was the fact that she had touched him! No body touched him, not unless he let them, which was quite a rare occurrence. Glancing down, he noticed that he now wore a pair of oddly coloured, camouflage trousers, but he noted with approval that the boots were in fact his own. There was no sign of his coat though; the bastards had probably cut it apart when they patched him up, and the thought of those book-trained idiots with their hands in his innards made him sick. They had better not made a mistake, or he'd make them pay.

Suddenly he was distracted as the sound of his blood racing through the chambers of his heart became increasingly louder. Bump, Bump…Bump, Bump…Bump, Bump…

"That's strong isn't it?"

"Turn it off," Sylar growled, but instead she turned it up, all he could hear was the sound of his heart, his blood. The valves in his heart opening and closing sounded like doors slamming, he tried to focus on something else, but there was nothing. His hearing was unresponsive and wouldn't tone down, the heartbeat didn't sound like a bump anymore, and he could hear the contraction spreading up his ventricular walls like an oncoming tsunami. The blood being forced out his ventricles was like a 21-gun salute.

"That's the heart of a fighter…a warrior… a survivor," her voice droned on but was swamped by Sylar's ever-oppressive heartbeat.

"Turn it off!" he roared, he could hear the weakness that lined his plea, and it made him sick the pit of his stomach, but had to get it to stop. The sound wasn't only distressing, but painful, like pins mercilessly jabbed into his delicate forehead. He pulled at his bonds one more time, tugging with his arms and kicking his legs, but they wouldn't budge, they were expertly tied down. The company had sure bucked its ideas up since his day.

In the end it felt like all he was, was just a heart, beating, throbbing and pulsing with pain; his brain screamed at his ears to stop hearing, desperate for its Serotonin system to stop the painful impulses reaching it, but his ears wouldn't listen to reason.

The door hissed and clanked as it opened, he glared in the direction of the sound and caught a glimpse of her face, which was imprinted with a sadistic smile.

"Turn it off!" he bellowed, so loud that it filled the whole room and beat down the sound of his own beating heart, for a while at least. The lights went out and everything was cast into darkness once more. Sylar was left red-faced, toxic and breathless, his throat was raw and his fingers were itching for that crone's head.

Sylar tried to rock or shake so that the stethoscope would fall away from his heart, but he was to closely confined for such a movement, that bitch must have planned this very well. He would make her pay, of that he was sure. The door sounded complicated and strong, but if it was opened or closed enough, Sylar was sure he could figure out how it worked, and when his powers were working again, they would all be sorry.

That was the thought that kept him sane during his hours of darkness and torture; that he would escape, track down the blonde bitch and make her suffer.

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**Hope you liked it, I would be happy to hear any thoughts on my fic, and any critisisms whether they be grammar or story related.**

**Yeoman1000, **


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